


The Dilemma

by obbel



Category: Latin American Celebrities RPF, Qué Pena - Maluma & J Balvin (Music Video), Reggaeton RPF
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Body Swap, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Maybe there's a tiny bit of plot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 01:17:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21045920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obbel/pseuds/obbel
Summary: Salgamos ya de este dilema.





	The Dilemma

Something is wrong.

Balvin wakes up in bed, alone, and he doesn’t know where he is. That’s not that unusual; it’s something else.

His whole body aches, and his head is pounding. He feels dehydrated. If it hadn’t been almost two decades since he last had a drink, he’d think he was hungover. He groans, swinging his legs around to stand up, and his foot collides painfully with the ground. He must have misjudged how tall the bed is.

The sheets pool around him, smooth and cool against his skin. He glances around the room, and just from the decor, he’s willing to bet that he’s stayed in this hotel before. He doesn’t remember how he got here, but at least he picked somewhere nice.

He sits on the edge of the bed, hunched over, not trusting himself to get up just yet. He keeps his eyes closed, trying to sort through the haze that clouds his memories from last night. He was at a casino, he remembers that much. And there was a woman, or maybe two. He definitely remembers that she was blonde. But thinking about it again, maybe she was brunette. There was someone else, too. But no, that couldn’t be. Because he’s not supposed to be doing that anymore.

He shakes his head, slowly, so as not to scramble up its contents any more. He opens his eyes and looks down at his arms resting against his thighs.

He nearly screams.

He looks at his hands, and his tattoos are missing. The tiger is gone, and so is the rose. There’s no _ V I D A R E A L _ spelled out on his knuckles. The only thing there is a small sparrow on the back of his left hand. His eyes follow the ink up his forearm, and he reads _ Magia. _

He closes his eyes quickly.

No, he thinks. That’s impossible. He shakes his head again, fast this time, scrambled brains be damned, and then barely cracks an eye open. His tattoos are still wrong, and now his head hurts even more.

He forces his eyes all the way open. He looks at his arms, his legs, and then slowly, very slowly, he brings his fingers up to his face. He touches the kind of beard he’s been jealous of his whole life. His jaw drops.

Balvin runs to the bathroom. His stride is wrong. His too-long legs are making him clumsy like a newborn giraffe, and he almost trips. He catches himself on the bathroom counter, barely daring to look at the mirror.

Someone else’s reflection stares back at him. Balvin, if that’s who he still is, passes out.

He’s still alone when he wakes up again. But instead of being in a comfortable bed with expensive sheets, he’s on the bathroom floor. This is the opposite of progress, he thinks. Get it together.

But that’s a lot of work, and his head still hurts, and if he stays on the cool tile floor with his eyes closed, he won’t have to see the wrong tattoos covering his skin or the wrong face staring back at him in the mirror. It’s even kind of zen, lying in silence, and it’s not at all depressing, he tells himself. He isn’t so delusional as to believe that for more than a couple seconds, though, so he forces himself to stand up and get in the shower. Being clean always makes him feel better.

Balvin mulls over his situation as the hot water pours over his body. Or not his body, actually. Fuck, this is weird. On the positive side, at least he knows whose body he’s inhabiting. It’s the same body he was _ inhabiting _ last night. But that was a much more pleasant experience. His memory is starting to become a little clearer.

Figures, he thinks. This is what he gets for climbing back into bed with Maluma. They had agreed to stop seeing each other again, gone back and forth for the millionth time about all the reasons they shouldn’t be doing this, all the exes, and the logistics, and the PR clusterfuck they’d have to deal with, and they’d come to an agreement of sorts. But temptation’s the one thing he’s never been able to resist. So. Maybe this is not entirely Maluma’s fault.

He spends a long time in the shower, examining Maluma’s body with scientific precision. He runs his hands over the same skin he’s touched countless times before, and it sends a shiver up his spine. Maluma’s spine.

Balvin holds a hand out in front of his face. Something as simple as five fingers connected to a palm fascinates him. Because they’re not his. It’s obvious in every detail, from the length of Maluma’s nails to the callouses he has in different places. And yet, Balvin can make these fingers move as he pleases. He can throw gang signs and prayer hands and flip off the mirror that shows him the wrong face. He could spend all day here, watching these hands move around.

He doesn’t, though. He gets distracted by the rest of Maluma’s body. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, nothing he hasn’t touched and licked and _ fucked _ before, but this kind of intimacy is beyond anything he ever expected. Now he knows Maluma from the inside out, literally.

Balvin thinks about jerking off, and Maluma’s dick twitches at the idea, but he’s pretty sure that would be ― if not rape then at least a non-consensual sex act. And he’s not going to bring that kind of bad karma on himself. He turns the water off and grabs a towel.

For some masochistic reason, Balvin gets dressed in front of the mirror, watching the reflection intently as he does. He, Maluma, is unfairly good-looking, Balvin thinks. Even with his try-hard haircut and his big nose, he’s still one of the best-looking people Balvin has met. And maybe that’s part of why he’s in his current predicament.

Whatever. He winks at the reflection. Might as well embrace it. “Looking fresh, _ ma g,” _ he says, out loud, because it’s not like that makes things any weirder than they already are.

Balvin finishes getting dressed, puts on Maluma’s rings and his watch, and his eyes catch on the time. It’s 9:30, but he’s not sure if it’s day or night. Logically, it should be the morning since he just woke up, but Balvin’s not going to make any assumptions about today.

Good call, he thinks as he steps outside, looking for the car that corresponds to the keys he found in the hotel room. The Jaguar lights up the night sky, headlights flashing blindingly when he clicks the button.

―

Balvin pulls up to the casino. It was the most recently used address in the GPS, thank God, because he would have never remembered how to get here otherwise. He gets out of the car, hands the keys to the valet, and heads up the dark and creepy staircase to the entrance.

He’s stopped dead in his tracks when he sees _ himself _ waiting in the lobby. As if on cue, _ he _turns around to face Balvin.

They don’t speak. Balvin out of shock; he’s not sure about Maluma. The situation is so surreal it’s robbed him of his voice. All he can do is check himself out, size him up, see how Maluma carries his body. Maluma mirrors his actions, and they spend a moment just staring at each other, trying to understand the unfathomable.

Maluma is the first one to break the trance, leaning in for… Balvin’s not sure what he’s going to do. He feels his own shoulder collide with Maluma’s. It’s not aggressive. It’s almost affectionate.

“Jesus, look at you,” Balvin says, tilting his head to look at himself. “What the hell are you wearing? Did you borrow that jacket from my _ tío?” _

“Come here, stupid,” Maluma says, and Balvin registers his own voice saying the words, but it’s obviously Maluma speaking. Even at a different pitch, it’s impossible to not recognize the vocal pattern, the unnecessarily sensual way he says things, the feeling like he’s hiding a joke or a secret behind the words.

Balvin is distracted by these thoughts until he sees his own hand come up for a handshake. He reciprocates, lets himself be pulled in to hug _ himself. _ It’s so fucking weird that he can’t help but to laugh. Maluma laughs, too.

_ “Parce, _what the fuck is going on?”

Balvin doesn’t know, and he says as much.

“Let’s go inside,” Maluma says.

“After you,” Balvin says, gesturing towards the dancefloor.

Balvin follows him, spending as much time watching the back of his own head as he does scanning the crowd. He and Maluma wade through the dark room, trying not to get in the way of the dancers twisting and turning through a dramatic tango. Balvin listens to the stomp of their heels around him as he and Maluma stop in the middle of the dance floor where the view is clearest.

Maluma leans in to speak to Balvin over the music. “There were two women here with us last night.”

Balvin nods. “You think they had something to do with this?”

“I don’t know.”

Balvin looks around, pointing out several women to Maluma, but none of them are right. Being in the same environment seems to jog his memory a bit more. He’s pretty sure the women came up to them. They get plenty of looks, but tonight no one seems brave enough to make the first move. Balvin sighs.

“They’re not here,” Maluma says. Balvin isn’t sure if he really knows that, or if he just wants to leave the dance floor. Regardless, he lets Maluma usher him towards a private room under the guise of playing cards. They fake their way through a couple of rounds, needing to lose enough money that the dealer won’t ask questions when they ask her to leave. She bows out quietly.

Balvin props his feet up on the table. Maluma rolls his eyes before doing the exact same thing.

“So,” Balvin starts. “What the fuck.”

Maluma laughs. “Yeah, what the fuck.”

“What happened yesterday?”

“You don’t remember?” Maluma raises an eyebrow at him. It’s unnerving how much Balvin’s face can look like Maluma’s when Maluma is the one controlling its movements.

“Uh,” Balvin says, fidgeting with the poker chips still stacked on the table. “Not much. There were those women, and there was you. And then there was just you.”

Maluma peers at him over his sunglasses. “Oh,” is all he says.

“What?”

“You really don’t remember?”

“I remember some things,” Balvin says, glancing at Maluma. “Are you going to tell me the rest, or are you going to ask more stupid questions?”

“Chill, _ hombre,” _ Maluma says, throwing Balvin’s hands up. “I’m just surprised. And maybe a little offended.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t remember having sex with me. I was pretty drunk, and I remember everything― Oh.” Maluma snaps his fingers. Balvin’s fingers. “That’s why.”

Balvin looks at him for a moment, and then he gets it, too. “Thanks for the hangover,” he grumbles. “And I do remember having sex with you. Sort of.”

Maluma laughs. “Good. Anyway.”

He recounts the rest of yesterday’s events, starting at the beginning: someone ― Maluma hedges on who exactly ― convinced the other to come to the casino for a night out. Maluma got drunk; Balvin did not. They caught the attention of two friends, and after flirting from a distance, the women came over to chat. One thing led to another, and suddenly all four of them found themselves in a hotel room. They were having a good time, Maluma says. There was a pillow fight. He thought they were going to have a foursome.

“Really?” Balvin raises his eyebrows.

“They got along well. _ We _ get along well. It was only natural.”

“I don’t think that’s the ‘natural’ conclusion to getting along well.”

Maluma purses his lips. Balvin doesn’t appreciate his own face looking so annoyed at him. “Whatever,” Maluma continues. “They bailed at some point.”

“So we _ weren’t _ getting along that well.”

“I don’t know, man. They disappeared into the bathroom and never came back.”

“So, what, we just went buck wild after that?”

“I mean, I went and checked the bathroom, and they weren’t in there. And I couldn’t find them anywhere else. But yeah, pretty much.”

“Wow.”

Maluma shrugs. “I enjoyed it. You did, too.”

Balvin doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s not that he doubts Maluma, but he shouldn’t have done it in the first place. Any of it, really.

“Hey,” Maluma says, putting a hand on Balvin’s shoulder. Balvin looks at the tattoos on his fingers, _ V I D A. _ “I know we agreed to stop. But we can agree to un-stop, you know.”

Balvin frowns. “That’s not a real word.”

“That’s not the important part of what I said.”

Balvin stares at the poker chips. “Is that what you want?” he asks after a moment.

“I never wanted to stop.”

Balvin flicks a chip at him. Maluma catches it. Balvin’s shoulder feels cold at the sudden loss of contact. “So why did you?”

Maluma turns the plastic disk over in his hand. Balvin watches his fingers.

“Because that’s what you wanted. Or at least that’s what you told me you wanted.” He raises an eyebrow.

Balvin says nothing. Then, quietly, “I lied to you.”

“Why?”

Balvin stacks and restacks the rest of the poker chips, not sure if he’s buying himself time or just prolonging the inevitable. Finally, he stops, knocking the stack over to fan the chips out on the table. He looks at Maluma, who has his face all tensed up. A worry line is forming between his eyebrows. It’s a familiar look, but he’s never gotten to see it first hand.

“I thought it would be easier. To just stop. Quit cold turkey.” Balvin laughs humorlessly.

Maluma exhales through his nose, loudly. He shakes his head slowly, eyes turned up towards the ceiling. “Don’t be a cliche,” he says. “I’m not your bad habit. You don’t need to ‘quit’ me.” He makes air quotes. Balvin doesn’t think his fingers have ever done that before.

“It’s not like this is going to work out, though,” Balvin says.

Maluma stares at him, frowning, his expression a combination of incredulity and annoyance. Balvin doesn’t like it.

“You and Valentina didn’t work out, either,” Maluma says, and there’s an edge to his words. “Neither did you and Mona. Or you and Ale, or Ana, or Dania, or the other Juan.” Maluma sticks a finger up for each name he says. He gets to six and chooses to use the middle finger of Balvin’s left hand.

Balvin laughs. He’s not in the mood to pick a fight. “You keep track of all my failed relationships?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, let’s talk about _ your _ exes then.”

Maluma opens Balvin’s mouth to protest, but Balvin talks over him. He barely gets in a word about the exes, though, before Maluma changes the subject to air out all his personal grievances with him, and soon any semblance of a productive conversation is lost as they both try to drown out the other with name-calling and general insults. They get to the point where Balvin is on top of the card table, doing his best impression of Maluma’s salsa routine, and Maluma hasn’t said anything besides _ buenos días _ for the last minute.

They’re interrupted by a knock on the door. Balvin freezes mid-step, looking at Maluma. Maluma glances back. Balvin gestures towards the door.

Maluma walks over to answer, opening the door only wide enough to show his face. Balvin stays where he is, watching. He can’t hear the conversation. He can only see the back of his head nod a couple of times, and then the door closes.

Maluma turns back to Balvin, still standing on the table. “It was the dealer,” Maluma says. “We’re getting kicked out since we’re not playing anymore.”

Balvin stares. The absurdity of the situation dawns on him, and the only thing he can do is laugh. “We’re getting kicked out!” he yells, and he hops down from the table.

Maluma watches him for a moment before laughing, too. “They’re kicking us out!” he echoes Balvin, and they both dissolve into hysteria, leaning against the card table so as not to fall over.

“So what do we do now?” Balvin asks once they’ve calmed down enough to stand up on their own.

“Well,” Maluma says, hesitating. Balvin eyes him. “I have an idea about how to switch back.”

―

They go back to the hotel Balvin woke up in. Balvin looks at the bed. It’s the same as he left it, sheets left in a twisted mess on top. Housekeeping hasn’t come by.

Maluma turns to him.

“I think it’s better if you don’t talk,” Balvin says before he can start. He holds up a hand.

“Fuck that,” Maluma says. He grabs the hand and jerks it down, then throws his weight into Balvin. Surprise more than force knocks Balvin onto the bed. He watches his own body climb into Maluma’s lap. He looks up at his own face. He looks pissed.

“Cut it out with your tragedy bullshit,” Maluma says, and Balvin considers the way he moves his mouth when he talks.

“Make me,” he says, and he’s not sure where that came from, but he likes the way Maluma’s voice sounds when he says it.

Maluma narrows his eyes. _ “Insoportable.” _ He takes Balvin’s uncle’s jacket off and tosses it on the ground. Then he strips off the shirt underneath it. Balvin stares at the _ Familia _ tattoo across his chest.

“We’re not Romeo and Julieta,” Maluma says, annoyed. “You don’t have to make this so complicated.”

Balvin traces the swirls of the _ F _ with Maluma’s finger. “Isn’t that your dog’s name?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“No,” says Balvin, and he kisses himself.

Maluma lets him. He lets Balvin use his tongue to open up his own mouth and use his lips and his teeth to kiss and suck and bite all over his own lips, his own neck. Balvin licks a stripe up alongside his jugular, stopping just under his jaw. He sucks at his own skin, feeling his own pulse racing.

Maluma whines. The sound is familiar and completely alien at the same time. Balvin sucks harder.

“Fuck,” Maluma says.

Balvin puts Maluma’s hands on his own stomach, traces _ 1985\. _ He rolls both of them sideways, taking advantage of Maluma’s height to pin his own body down. Balvin moves lower, leaning in to trace over the same numbers with his tongue. He kisses his way to the left, licks the tiger tattoo before letting his teeth sink into the stripes. He rubs Maluma’s thumbs over his hip bones, staring up at himself.

“This is so fucked up,” his own voice says. “Don’t stop.”

Balvin laughs, mimicking the way Maluma laughs on his outros. Maluma throws one of Balvin’s arms across his face, head tilted back as he laughs. “God,” he says.

Balvin sits back on his heels, stripping off Maluma’s black turtleneck. Maluma drops the arm, watching intently.

“Damn, I look pretty good.”

Balvin rolls his eyes, then kisses him again and starts undoing his belt. Maluma scrambles to help him get his pants off, and Balvin stares down at his own body, now almost naked. He brushes his fingers over his underwear, feels how hard his own cock is. Maluma shudders.

“You should blow me,” he says, voice a little shaky.

“I can do that,” Balvin says, and he yanks the underwear off his own body and goes down on himself.

Having his own dick in his mouth is not as familiar as he thought it would be. He gets intimately acquainted with the underside of his cock, something he’s never gotten the chance to examine so up close and personal before. He licks it, flattening out his tongue against the smooth skin. He finds the spot he knows he likes and flicks the tip of his tongue. Maluma groans. Balvin does it again.

He gets the head of his cock in his mouth and sucks, and he finds himself sliding all the way down, easily. Maluma, he realizes, doesn’t have a gag reflex. His eyes widen as he makes this discovery. He kind of suspected before, but experiencing it from the other side is a whole other story. Maluma winks at him.

Balvin pulls off. “Holy shit.”

“Do it again,” Maluma says, pleased with himself.

He does, several times, bobbing up and down with ease as Maluma rolls his hips, fucking his own throat. He moans, and the sound is so familiar Balvin doesn’t know if this is sex, or if this is masturbation, or if he even really cares. Either way, Balvin is getting uncomfortably hard. He shifts, trying to get some relief.

“Come here,” Maluma says, and Balvin pulls off again. He climbs on top of Maluma, who leans in to undo his pants, push them down and off, and his underwear with them. They’re naked now, and Balvin stares down at his own body.

Underneath him, Maluma is doing the same thing. He runs his hand up his own thigh, touches his stomach and his chest. Balvin watches quietly as Maluma explores. It’s only fair. Maluma doesn’t get too caught up, though. His hand goes directly to his dick, stroking slowly, wrist twisting in a way that makes Balvin buck his hips involuntarily.

Maluma leans over and grabs a bottle of lube out of the drawer, popping the top off. It’s loud, and they both jump. Balvin looks at him.

“I want you to fuck yourself.”

The words send a jolt straight to Balvin’s dick. Or Maluma’s. Whatever. He whines quietly. Maluma grabs his hand and pours, lube dripping down over his fingers, making a mess. Maluma guides his own hand toward Balvin’s body.

Balvin presses his fingers gently inside himself and watches his face as he does it. Maluma has his mouth open slightly, and he’s watching, too. Balvin takes his time, stretches himself out until Maluma is moaning, hands full of sheets and dick flat against his stomach, hard and wet. He shifts his hips, helplessly thrusting against the air. Balvin reaches into the drawer for a condom. He rolls it onto Maluma’s dick. 

It feels like the first time all over again. Balvin goes slow, almost unbearably so. His eyes never leave his face, watching to see if what Maluma liked before still applies to this new body. Balvin’s body.

“You good?” he asks.

Maluma nods. He has Balvin’s face tensed up, though. Balvin runs his clean thumb over his own cheekbone, then cups his cheek. Maluma turns his neck to press closer. He sighs.

“Move,” he says. “Move.”

Fuck. His voice sounds ragged as if _ he _ was the one with a dick down his throat. Balvin groans, low and thin. He picks up the pace, and Maluma moans loudly. It sounds so strange. Balvin’s not usually very loud. Maluma grabs his own hip, guiding Balvin’s movements. Balvin can feel him tightening around his cock. He closes his eyes.

“Oh no,” Maluma says. “You have to watch. That’s the best part.”

Balvin opens his eyes, staring down at himself getting fucked. He wants to take a picture, but he’s not that reckless. He does his best to memorize the scene instead, the way his own face looks when his eyes roll back, the way his back arches, the way Maluma’s body looks inside him. He lets himself be loud this time. He’s always liked the way Maluma sounds, anyway.

Maluma hooks a leg around his waist, and Balvin feels the heel digging into his back. Balvin thrusts his hips experimentally, rolling, snapping, _ fucking _ himself until he finds the right angle. Maluma jerks his body, letting out a short yell.

“Do that again.”

Neither one of them is going to last very long, Balvin can tell. Balvin’s been fighting the urge to come since he got Maluma out of his clothes.

Balvin rolls his hips the same way, and Maluma yells again. Balvin wraps his fingers around his dick, jerking himself off to the same rhythm as his thrusts. Maluma is tense, back arched even more, and he’s pushing back to meet Balvin’s every move. Balvin can’t hold out much longer.

He doesn’t have to. Maluma comes with a loud “Oh”, body tensing up as he spills all over his own hand. Balvin wipes it on the sheets, then drops to his forearms, world narrowed down to a singular focus. He fucks his body relentlessly, pressing Maluma’s sweaty forehead against his own. He looks himself in the eye and comes, and then his vision goes white.

―

He resurfaces a moment later, still on top of his own body.

“Fuck,” he says.

“Can you move?” Maluma asks, squirming.

Balvin rolls his eyes. He pulls out, as slowly as he can, but Maluma still grimaces. He ties off the condom and heads towards the bathroom to throw it away.

He comes back and stares at his body, lounging on the bed. He’s never looked so relaxed after sex. He doesn’t usually stick around. He keeps himself busy, runs around doing something, anything, to keep moving.

“Your idea didn’t work,” Balvin says, sitting on the edge of the bed, next to himself. Maluma glances at him before moving over, pulling Balvin in to sit right next to him. Balvin doesn’t even resist.

“Good observation,” Maluma says.

They sit in silence for a while, shoulders touching. Balvin stares at Maluma’s feet, sticking out a little past his own. He tips a foot over, letting it fall in an arch to knock against Maluma. Maluma rubs his foot against Balvin’s, and Balvin feels the thick skin of his sole against the bones of Maluma’s ankle. He sighs.

“I lied, too,” Maluma says suddenly. Balvin looks at him sharply.

“About what?”

“The women from yesterday. They didn’t disappear. I asked them to leave.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t feel like sharing.”

Balvin keeps looking at his face. Maluma is avoiding eye contact, staring at, well, Balvin’s dick, actually. Balvin laughs, because what else is there to do. Maluma looks at him again.

“Okay,” Balvin says.

“Okay?”

“Don’t share then.”

Maluma has Balvin’s lips slightly pursed, a faint line forming between his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t share if you don’t want to.”

The line gets more pronounced. “Are you,” he starts, then stops. “Seriously?”

Balvin shrugs. “What if we never switch back? No one else is going to understand this. I don’t even understand it.”

“Is that the only reason you’re saying this?”

“Does it matter?”

Maluma throws Balvin’s hands up in the air. “Fucking unbelievable,” he says. “It took an act of God to get you to date me. Cool.” Maluma shakes Balvin’s head. His eyes are closed.

“I didn’t say I was dating you. And I’m not sure this is an act of God. Satan, maybe.”

Maluma opens his eyes. He rolls them. “Whatever,” he says, standing up suddenly. “I’m going to shower. And then I’m going to sleep. You can stay here, if you want.”

“Thank you, that’s very generous.”

Maluma turns his back to Balvin, flipping him off over his shoulder as he heads towards the bathroom. Balvin waits until he hears the water turn on before sliding out of bed and following him into the shower.

Maluma doesn’t say anything when Balvin steps into the shower behind him. Balvin wraps his arms around his own waist, pressing up against himself. Even in this taller body, his own broad shoulders prevent most of the spray from hitting him. He watches water droplets roll over the letters _ J. A. O. B. _

“If you want me to date you, I can do that,” he says into the back of his own neck. Maluma shrugs his shoulders, rolling them backwards and forcing his face away. He turns around to look at Balvin. His anger is palpable, even as he flings water out of his eyes. He crosses Balvin’s arms over his chest.

“Don’t put this on me. I don’t care if you date me. But don’t act like you don’t want me.”

Balvin watches his own face, still tense, watching him, waiting for his response. “What―” he starts, but Maluma talks over him, not waiting anymore. Maluma has his eyes narrowed, expression a cold contrast to the steam surrounding them.

“I’m not some skeleton in your goddamn closet you need to feel bad about. Stop running away only to come crawling back.”

Balvin drops his gaze, embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he says, staring at Maluma’s feet. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

“It’s not even about how I feel,” Maluma says bitingly. Balvin glances back up. “It’s about you being an asshole. You asked me to stop, but then you invited me out. And you do this all the time, _ carajo. _ You act like this is a zero-sum game. It’s not. There’s no winning. There’s no losing. You don’t have to hedge every bet you make.”

With that, Maluma leaves, stepping out of the shower and leaving Balvin all alone. The onslaught of water catches him off guard. He stays there, thinking about what Maluma said until he looks down at Maluma’s hands and sees that the skin of his fingertips has wrinkled up.

Maluma is lying on his back pretending to be asleep when Balvin finally comes out of the bathroom. Balvin gets into bed next to him. “I’m sorry,” he says again. 

Maluma cracks one eye open for half a second, then shuts it immediately.

“Really,” Balvin says, rolling to lie on one side. He looks at Maluma in his body, wondering if things are going to stay like this forever, if this is just going to be the new normal. “I’m sorry.”

Maluma opens both eyes, glancing angrily at Balvin. He doesn’t close them again, though.

“I wasn’t playing games,” Balvin says quietly. “I just wasn’t even sure you wanted this.”

Maluma stares blankly at him. “Why would you think that? Because of all the time we spend together? Because of all the sex we’re having?”

“Maybe I was overthinking it.”

Maluma rolls his eyes so hard Balvin worries that if he ever gets his body back, his optic nerve will have disconnected from his eyeballs. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop fucking saying that and say something meaningful.”

“I don’t know what else to say! I _ am _sorry.”

Maluma sighs, and then he doesn’t say anything else. Balvin hates the silence, starts racking his brain to come up with something to say. But he comes up short. Everything sounds inadequate even as he rehearses it in his head.

“Look,” Maluma says, interrupting his thoughts. He shifts ever so slightly to look at Balvin straight on. “I do care if you date me.”

Balvin mirrors his posture, looking at him intently. He frowns.

“Why didn’t you ever say that?”

“Because I don’t want to hear you tell me no for real.”

Balvin feels like he’s been hit with the water in the shower again. 

“Even if you ask me to stop, we always end up here eventually,” Maluma says, gesturing at the space in between them. “And I didn’t want to bet on whatever this is and risk losing it. So, you know, I just went with whatever you were doing.”

Balvin is the worst kind of asshole. He says as much.

“Yeah,” Maluma says. “But I was also kind of betting you’d change. Prove me right?” Maluma gazes at him through his eyelashes. Balvin wasn’t aware his face could even look like that.

“I’m sorry,” Balvin says for what feels like the millionth time. Not that he thinks he’s apologized too many times. He’s not sure he’ll be able to apologize enough.

“Stop,” Maluma says. “I’m not _ totally, _ hopelessly in love. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be. Just so you know.”

“Are you, uh,” Balvin pauses, diverting his eyes briefly away from his face to his chest and back. But he manages to look himself in the eye as he asks, “In love?”

“Yes,” Maluma says without hesitating, an openness in his face and his voice that Balvin has only dreamt about having.

“Oh,” Balvin says quietly, and he feels a vein pulsing on Maluma’s forehead, but nonetheless he forces himself to keep talking. “Me too.”

Maluma smiles at him, expression happy and sleepy and a little bit smug. He starts to lean in, but then his face is taken over by an enormous yawn. “Let’s go to sleep,” he says. “You can be the big spoon.”

―

Balvin wakes up in bed, alone, and he doesn’t know where he is.

But then it all comes rushing back, and he sits up immediately, flinging an arm out in front to examine. _ Mi Gente _ stares him in the face, and he heaves a sigh of relief so deep it knocks him back onto the sheets.

He hears the water running in the bathroom, and he slides out of bed to investigate. Maluma is brushing his teeth with just a pair of underwear on.

“Hi,” Balvin says, lingering awkwardly in the doorway.

Maluma spits into the sink and grins at Balvin. “Good morning.”

“We’re back to normal.”

“Yes, we are. Does that mean you’re gonna go back to, you know, normal?”

“No,” Balvin says. “Well, a new normal. A better normal.”

“Good,” Maluma says, setting his toothbrush down next to the sink. He turns to face Balvin. “Now what?”

“Mmm,” Balvin says, eyeing Maluma up and down, very unsubtly. “We need to figure out if this is going to happen every time.” 

Maluma laughs, loud and open, throwing his head back. “Come on,” he says, grabbing Balvin’s hand and dragging him back to bed.

**Author's Note:**

> [Anyone else notice that in a whole room full of pretty ladies these two dorks choose to leave with _each other?_](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Geyg_F5pfHE)


End file.
